


Some I Can't Define

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Tales of the City Series - Armistead Maupin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know about cameras, right?” Michael asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some I Can't Define

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queen_ypolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_ypolita/gifts).



There’s a box of photographs under the sink, and Michael doesn’t open it for a very long time. Then one night he comes back to the apartment and he’s stoned and the room feels so empty and he thinks what the hell. So he dumps the entire thing out on the bed and starts sorting through.

\--

(August, 1981)  
Mrs. Madrigal had strung fairy lights from every tree. Mostly they were just white lights, but there was the occasional strand of glowing red and orange. A couple Chinese lanterns hung from the edge of the porch. It was a warm August evening and Michael and Jon were taking advantage it by lying out side by side on a blanket on the lawn.

“You know why they’re called fairy lights,” Michael began.

“Do I want to know?” asked Jon.

“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t.”

“All right then.”

“No, seriously, you can impress people with this information at the next meeting of Rich Tightasses Anonymous.”

“I don’t go to those meetings anymore.”

“We still get the damn invites.”

“I know.”

“Sent to my apartment, but addressed to you.”

“Our apartment.”

“Yes.”

“So why are they called fairy lights?”

Michael sighed and rested his head on his hands. “Distress flares. I’m surprised you don’t know, being a commission away from ‘In the Navy.’” Jon punched him lightly. “They used to shoot them off—fire balls—from a flare gun. And it’s actually not fairy lights. It’s Véry Lights. But that’s not as fun.”

“No,” said Jon. Then, “How do you know all this?”

“I read,” said Michael, which was true, but this particular tidbit had come from a Berkeley grad student in history he had spent two nights with in ’80.

Jon began to reply, “Long nights cuddled up with the OED?” when a door slammed overhead and someone started coming down the stairs.

Michael squeezed Jon’s arm. “Watch out. If that’s a size ten and a half I hear, it can only mean one thing.”

“Brian’s been stealing my shoes again?”

Sure enough, a voice from on high: “Well, that settles it. I’m officially switching teams.”

Jon brought himself up and rested on his elbows. “That ought to upset Mary Ann.”

“I’m serious, guys.” Brian descended the remaining stairs and entered the yard. He sat down beside them, not on the blanket—he didn’t seem to want to intrude that far—but beside it on the grass. “I’m done with women.”

Michael had heard this song and dance before. “What’s with the camera?” he asked instead. There was one hanging around Brian’s neck—quite a nice one by the looks of it.

Brian rolled is eyes. “Why do women have to be so sensitive? If I aimed a camera at you looking less than perfect, would it be grounds for World War Three?”

“No,” said Michael, at the same time as Jon said, “…no.” Michael turned to him, eyes playfully wide. “You paused!”

“I was gathering my thoughts.”

“I can’t believe you paused!”

It was then, as Michael tried to simultaneously straddle Jon and seize his head, exclaiming, “I’m going to mess up your hair for that,” that Brian took the most perfect imperfect photo of all time.

 

(November, 1981)  
Jon was in the kitchen with Michael’s mother. Somehow they had been alone in there for twenty minutes and nothing had exploded. Michael excused himself from his conversation with Great Aunt Vanessa—it was a miracle, really, that she was still alive and discussing dog shows—and made for the kitchen, pausing just outside the door when he heard a laugh from inside.

“All I’m saying,” Michael heard Jon saying, “is that she’s not nearly as well-preserved up close. And she had no sea legs whatsoever.”

Michael’s mother laughed again. Michael blinked. From where he was standing, partially hidden by the door, it looked as if she were _smiling_ as well, when all she had done since their arrival was nod politely. “And was she accompanied by Senator—”

Jon came into view, passing by Michael’s mother and peering into a pot on the stove. “Never saw him. When we stopped in Honolulu, I heard he flew in just to see her and they spent the entire time arguing on the gangplank.” He gestured to the pot. “I think these are almost ready.”

Michael’s mother joined him. “You’re right. Perfect timing.” She reached under the sink for the colander. Straightening, she asked, shyly, “Do you think there’s any chance she and Richard Burton will settle their differences?”

“Again?” Jon asked. His gaze flickered to the door. Michael stepped back, but not fast enough, judging from the grin on Jon’s face as he turned back to Michael’s mother. “Such things have been known to happen.”

“Smile, Mikey,” said a voice at his elbow, and Michael turned right into the blinding flash of a camera wielded by his Uncle Barrett.

“Jesus,” Michael exclaimed involuntarily, and then, “sorry,” seeing Uncle Barrett’s face.

The camera spit out a Polaroid. Uncle Barrett pulled it out and started waving it to and fro. “I hear you’re in the gardening business,” he said.

“Yes,” said Michael.

“What’s your favorite thing to do? In the great outdoors, I mean,” Uncle Barrett amended, coloring somewhat.

“I like it when the customer knows what they want but are willing to hear suggestions as well,” Michael said, smiling gently. “I guess I like flexibility.”

“Flexibility. Right.” Uncle Barrett glanced down at the photo. “Oh.” His face fell. “It didn’t turn out.”

“I’ll take it,” said Michael.

“Okay. Here you go. Happy Thanksgiving, Mikey!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Uncle Barrett.”

Uncle Barrett wandered off, and Michael glanced down at the picture in his hand. It hadn’t turned out very well at all; it was blurry and Michael took up too much of it in a blinding white flash. There was no trashcan in sight and he certainly didn’t want to go into the kitchen, so Michael slipped it into his pocket and went to find his brother.

 

(January, 1982)  
“It’s always fucking ‘Dancing Queen,’” Jon said.

“Those are really going to be your first words of 1982?”

There was tinsel everywhere. The party had been billed as the Black and White Ball, but there was enough glitter on the floor to choke a horse and just a few seconds after the midnight countdown reached its inevitable conclusion, they had released what had to be a ton of silver stuff from the roof. It draped down and stuck itself to everyone’s clothing.

And, indeed, the song immediately following “Auld Lange Syne” was “Dancing Queen.”

“I already miss 1981,” said Jon.

 

(March, 1982)  
Anna Madrigal poked her head out and said, “Come in, Michael. You’ll wear a hole in the porch.”

Michael was pacing back and forth in front of Mrs. Madrigal’s front door, but at the sounds of the landlady’s voice he smiled and did as she said, coming in and closing the door behind him.

“Sit down,” she said, doing so herself, “and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Nothing really,” said Michael. “Jon and I are supposed to go see _Victor Victoria_ but I don’t think we can make it now.” He glanced at his watch. “He was supposed to be back by now.”

“There was an accident on Market that’s causing a lot of backup.” She gestured at the radio. “I just heard.”

“Oh.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while until Mrs. Madrigal crossed her legs and cleared her throat. “I had a card from Mona today. She’s thinking about leaving Seattle.”

“Why?” asked Michael.

“She didn’t say.”

This time the silence felt forced, with both of them holding back from saying what they really wanted to say, until, again, Mrs. Madrigal spoke. “I was wondering, dear, whether you may be able to help me with this device Brian gave me.”

“Of course,” said Michael. “What device might that be?”

It turned out to be a camera, and Michael taught her how to open the back and put in new film.

“That was the problem,” said Mrs. Madrigal. I barely used the old one, but the mechanism was different.”

“Weren’t you a small arms repairman—person—during the war?”

Mrs. Madrigal shook her head. “A glorified typist, mostly, but I didn’t mind. At Fort Ord.”

“So you would have no reason to know how to work one of these,” said Michael, playfully aiming the camera at her.

“Not now, dear, I’m hardly presentable,” but her protestation was drowned out by the click of the shutter.

“Sorry,” said Michael, trying to keep his face unreadable. “My finger slipped.”

“I’m sure it did,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

They were both still laughing when the door opened and Jon came in. “There was nowhere to park,” he said. He sounded slightly out of breath and his hair was wet. “And then it started to rain.”

Michael got up to join him, glancing at his watch. “We could make the screening at the Castro if we booked it.”

“Let me at least get you a towel, dear, before you run off,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “And take that umbrella by the door. There’s nothing worse than sitting through a movie in wet clothes.”

Jon just nodded, and as Mrs. Madrigal stepped into her bedroom to fetch the towel, Michael noticed that his jaw was clenched. He slid an arm around Jon’s waist. “Bad day?”

“In a minute,” Jon said, his voice pitched low.

“What—” but Mrs. Madrigal was back with a fluffy orange towel. She handed it to Jon and he gave his hair a cursory swipe and began to blot at his clothes. His hands were shaking a little.

“Are we in for a cold spell, do you think?” Mrs. Madrigal asked.

“Maybe,” said Jon. “You never know with San Francisco.” He handed the towel back. “Thanks, Mrs. Madrigal. If we’re going to make it we really should go.” He turned to Michael. “Coming?”

Michael grabbed the umbrella and they both stepped out onto the porch. Mrs. Madrigal closed the door behind them, but stood just inside, watching their backs with a perplexed expression on her face.

Michael kept his back to the door and unfurled the umbrella. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s get out of the garden, at least,” said Jon.

They had both been excited about the movie that morning. Ned had been raving about it for days and Michael had taken very little convincing. When Jon’s ship came in on the Monday, one of the first things he mentioned was the possibility of seeing it. Now it was Wednesday and they were walking slowly through the rain to the car and they were climbing in but Jon made no move to turn on the engine.

“You’re starting to scare me,” said Michael. “What did they say about your sinus infection?”

Jon laughed, but there was no humor to it. “It turns out it’s just a sinus infection. A nasty one. And it may get nastier.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” said Michael. “Do you want to stop for more Kleenex on the way back from the movie?”

“Would you listen to me, turkey?”

Michael pressed his lips together.

“They also took a throat swab and found candidiasis, which is like a yeast infection. Both of those are symptoms they’ve been seeing in…”

There was no sound in the car save the intermittent rain hitting the windshield. Michael thought maybe Jon was unaware that he had failed to complete his sentence, but the thought was fleeting, and unimportant. They both knew how it would have ended.

“Those guys in the news?” Michael said, hating himself for how quivery his voice was when it came out.

“Yeah,” said Jon, from the depths of his chest.

They sat there a little longer and then, “But it could be anything,” Michael said.

“They think not.”

“It could be that you just have both of these things at the same time and it’s a complete coincidence.”

“I’m getting a headache,” said Jon. “Let’s go back.”

Michael got out of the car and came around to Jon’s side with the umbrella and Jon let him, waiting to open the door until Michael was there and then stepping out quickly under the umbrella and shutting the car door firmly behind him. Walking back up towards Barbary Lane, Michael slid his arm through Jon’s and, again, Jon let him.

“Maybe we can go see the movie tomorrow,” said Michael.

“Yeah,” said Jon. “Maybe tomorrow.”

 

(May, 1982)  
It was unseasonably warm and Michael and Jon were taking advantage of the sun by sitting out in the garden on two ancient lawn chairs Brian had found at some garage sale and painted bright blue, replacing the tattered canvas seats with new brilliant red.

“I feel like I’m on an ocean liner,” said Michael.

“This is far better than the real thing, my love,” Jon said. “In real like they run more towards plastic chairs that take off at the first stiff wind.” He pulled his blanket further up his lap.

“Not the _Sagafjord_. The _QEII_.”

“Maybe that,” Jon allowed, closing his eyes and tilting the chair back a little further.

Michael must have dozed a bit himself, because when Mary Ann laid a hand on his elbow he was jolted out of sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was just wondering if it’s good for him to be out in the sun like that.” She gestured to Jon, still asleep and snoring loudly.

“It’s fine,” said Michael snappishly.

Mary Ann stepped back, obviously hurt.

“No, no,” Michael said, struggling out of sleep and bringing his chair upright. “I’m sorry. I’m awful waking up. We put on sunscreen. Not that it matters. Too long term.”

“Oh Michael,” said Mary Ann.

“Don’t get me started,” said Michael. “What’s going on with you?”

Mary Ann smiled softly and rolled her eyes. “Bored out of my mind interviewing the Umpire of Union Square. Don’t ask,” she added, noticing Michael’s expression. “It’s really not worth the time it would take to tell.”

Michael chuckled. “How glamorous.”

“But listen,” said Mary Ann. “I ran into DeDe Halcyon today and she said that if the two of you ever wanted to you could use the house for a weekend. She and D’or are driving up to Napa quite a bit these days.”

“That’s nice of her,” said Michael, thinking that the only thing weirder than this thing with Jon happening would be this thing with Jon happening in someone else’s house.

“Just something to think about,” said Mary Ann.

Jon coughed loudly from his chair and blinked awake. “Jesus,” he said. “Better than an alarm clock.”

“Hello there,” said Mary Ann cheerfully. “Nice nap?” Michael marveled at her ability to execute emotional 360s.

Jon smiled back at her, still coughing a little and feeling around his pockets for a Kleenex. “Very nice, thank you,” he managed. “Should have stopped working years ago.”

“That’s what Brian’s always saying,” said Mary Ann.

“Has he ever considered going back to law school?” Jon asked.

“No,” said Mary Ann, with a considering expression on her face. “I wonder if he would.”

“Leave it alone, you two,” said Michael. “Let the poor guy do what he wants.”

“What poor guy is that?” came Brian’s voice from behind them. He joined Mary Ann and gave her a kiss. “How was your day?”

“Blah. How was yours?”

“Same.”

Their heads swiveled in unison to regard Michael and Jon and Michael laughed. “Have you two considered an exorcism? ‘Cause the way you do that is downright unholy.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “And you guys don’t finish each other’s sentences.”

“I don’t,” Jon began.

“Know what you’re talking about,” said Michael.

Brian went and perched on the arm of Jon’s chair. “And how’s my favorite gynecologist today?” He turned to the others. “You know, this guy takes his job so seriously he gets a yeast infection _in his mouth_.”

Jon shook his head, smiling. “Nice try, Brian. I’ve heard better.”

“Yeah,” said Michael. “Try writing it down first.”

“Fuck you both,” Brian said, grinning from ear to ear. He got up and rejoined Mary Ann. “What do you say? You, me, dinner, early to bed?”

“Sounds marvelous,” Mary Ann replied. “See you both later.” They began making their way upstairs.”

Once he was sure they were safely out of earshot, Michael leaned in Jon’s direction. “And you thought they wouldn’t last.”

 

(August, 1982)  
“Just a little more.”

“Shh. Take your time.”

“I’m sorry to make you—”

“Hey, turnabout is fair play, right?”

“Right.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

“You are such a liar.”

“But a cute one I hope.”

“Turkey.”

“Are you feeling a little better?”

“No. Maybe a little.”

“Do you want to get back in bed?”

“Can we stay here for a little longer?”

“Of course. As long as you want.”

“Have you heard from—”

“Not you too.”

“Have you heard from Mona?”

“Is Mrs. Madrigal paying you?”

“I have to earn a living somehow.”

“Well.”

“Well what?”

“Well no.”

“Why not?”

“Ask her.”

“I would, but I’m a little busy dying.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Jesus. It hurts again.”

“I love you.”

“Keep talking.”

 

(November, 1982)

“I feel like Jane Eyre,” said Michael. “I feel like I’m Jane Eyre and you’re Mr. Rochester and you want me to go away but I want to just keep leading you around for the rest of your life.”

“Well, unlike Jane Eyre,” Jon began.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” said Brian, from over Michael’s shoulder.

“…you won’t have long to wait,” Jon finished in defiance of his friend’s wishes.

“Also,” said Brian, who was eerily well-read, “Mr. Rochester was ugly, and I think we both know who the less attractive one is in this relationship.”

“That was before I dropped a hundred pounds,” said Jon.

Michael couldn’t speak because it was true, but he knew that silences stretched on longer for those who couldn’t see, so he scrambled to find something to say.

Once again, Brian came to his rescue. “I hate to break it to you, but Twiggy’s gonna be on Broadway next year. Thin is in.”

Michael latched on to this news in an effort to change the subject more than anything else. “Brian, how could you possibly know that?”

“Yeah,” said Jon in that weak, weak voice Michael hated so much, “you’re straight.”

“I have ears,” said Brian mysteriously.

“Is he raising one eyebrow?” Jon asked.

Brian was doing no such thing. He looked exhausted, with big circles under his eyes from spending so much time with Michael at Jon’s bedside. More than once the nurses had told him to go home—Michael, they knew, wouldn’t listen—but he refused. “He most certainly is,” Michael confirmed.

“Hit him,” said Jon.

Michael punched Brian lightly on the upper arm.

“Ow!” Brian wailed, as if reacting to a much harder punch. “Fine, fine, I was waiting on a couple of guys in suits at Perry’s and they were talking about what’s going up next season.”

“What’s she in?” Michael asked.

“I forget the name,” said Brian. “But it’s with Tommy Tune.”

“Yum,” said Michael.

There was a light knock on the door and one of the nurses came in. Michael vaguely remembered that her name was Lisa and she was one of the brusquer ones. Sure enough: “Time to change the sheets. I need the two of you out.”

“I was allowed to stay last time,” Michael began, but Brian took his arm and said, “You could use a walk.” Over Michael’s head, to the nurse: “Five minutes?”

“Should do it.”

Michael got up and went over to Jon, where he planted a kiss on his head. “I’m just stepping out for five minutes. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Plenty of room,” Jon coughed, “to maneuver.”

Out in the hall, Michael sank into a waiting chair. Brian hauled him up again. “Nope. I told you we’re going on a walk, we’re going on a walk. At least as far as the flower shop. I’ve always wanted to see that.”

“Mary Ann telling bedtime stories again?” Michael asked without much interest. Cannibal cults seemed pretty tame at the moment.

“Always,” said Brian.

They walked the halls side-by-side until they found themselves in front of a vending machine. “Looks like they just have Tab,” Brian observed. “My treat?”

“Sure,” said Michael, whose gaze had fallen on the inexplicable object beside the vending machine. “What do they think this is, the pier?” he asked. It was a photo booth.

Brian cocked his head. “You wanna?”

At first when they climbed inside and pulled the curtain closed, Michael found himself thinking of the Glory Hole, or any number of similar places. It felt like forever since he had been in something like this. A lifetime ago.

“I’ve got quarters,” Brian was saying, rummaging around in his pocket.

“Or are you just happy to see me?”

Brian shook his head. “Nice try, Tolliver.” Having located the requisite number of quarters, he pushed them one by one into the slot.

From above a light started blinking. Then it started blinking faster.

“How many of these do we—” Brian began, when the light flashed.

Again the warning blinks, increasing in speed. Michael and Brian sat side by side, smiling. The picture took. “That felt weird,” said Brian.

“I know,” said Michael.

“Let’s frown in the next one,” said Brian.

“Okay,” said Michael.

They did.

For the fourth picture, Brian laid an arm across Michael’s shoulders and prepared another smile. Michael got stuck halfway to grinning and, suddenly, found himself crying.

Brian’s face fell. “Hey,” he said, “hey,” and he lightly jiggled the arm around Michael’s shoulder.

“I think our photos are done,” said Michael, pushing his way out of the booth.

Brian had to call Mary Ann, so Michael headed back to the room alone. Jon started as the door opened and called out, frightened, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” said Michael.

“Michael?” said Jon, the panic still in his voice.

“That’s right.”

“I thought you left.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good,” said Jon, finally seeming to calm down. “I don’t think I have the energy to come running after you again.”

“You did when it mattered,” said Michael.

“You should get some sleep,” Jon said. “You look terrible.”

“How would you know? You can’t see.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” said Jon.

“There must be something wrong with your ears now,” said Michael. “I’ve never been better.”

“I wish I had a camera here,” said Jon. “To prove you wrong.”

“Well, you don’t,” said Michael. “And you’re starting to wheeze again a little.”

Jon extended a hand in Michael’s direction, moving as if it weighed a ton. Michael took it in his own and held on tight.

“You know about cameras, right?” Michael asked. “The word comes from Latin. And then there’s Isherwood: ‘I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.’ Sometimes I think he had it right.” Jon shut his eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Keep going. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

\--

There are more, but these are the ones Michael puts into his bedside table before he replaces the box underneath the sink: Michael and Brian talking, Michael and Brian smiling, Michael and Brian frowning, Michael’s face crumpled one way and Brian’s the other, his oblivious arm around Michael; a postcard, intended for Mona, with “Please call me,” written on the back and a scene from Vertigo on the front; sleeping Michael and Jon in matching lawn chairs, taken by Mary Ann without their knowledge and shoved under their door a week later; Mrs. Madrigal in a kimono, legs crossed and sitting on her sofa, looking at the camera with a look that says I know what’s going to happen and I could put a stop to it but I won’t; Michael and Jon posed in front of a glittering background, ‘1982’ imprinted at the bottom, Michael’s smile forced and Jon’s just starting to slip, but their grips on eachothers' waists very real indeed; a blurry, glowing Michael on a tiny crumpled Polaroid, the ghost of pleasant surprise still written on his face; Michael pinning Jon down, illuminated by the fairy lights above, grins on both their faces, things about to get messy.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wish I had photographs to accompany this, or at least sketches, but I'm not an artist.
> 
> Title lovingly stolen from the lyrics of the Gershwins' "How Long Has This Been Going On?" which is one of the songs in _My One And Only_ , the musical starring Twiggy and Tommy Tune.


End file.
